


oath keepers

by mermaidism



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Winterfell, jaime and brienne belong to one another and that is all, this show is the worst but i'm doing my best here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaidism/pseuds/mermaidism
Summary: The final season of HBO's Game of Thrones is nonsense and everyone knows this.Jaime and Brienne in Winterfell."Now there's blood in my eyes from all this trying to seeI am deeper in than when I first cameAnd I have traded my gold for a pen and some inkAnd I am trying hard to write my name"-Jeffrey Martin, 'Newborn Thing'





	oath keepers

There is a small part of him, even still, that wants nothing more than to seize a horse and gallop the King’s Road to her side. It usually comes to him late at night after his fire has started to slacken and die and the North is so quiet that all he can hear is Brienne’s slow slumber and his own heartbeat. Then, in that stillness, the awful voice of his worst impulses begins to whisper in his ear; soothing and stroking even as she once did.

There in the darkness and the quiet he must fight to lay still, to banish the image of her eyes, her breasts, her hair like a river of sunlight, to recall that her love was never really love. He swears he can feel her fingers on him, her red lips against the ghost of his sword hand. He lashes out blindly; fighting her off or reaching to pull her close. Even he is not sure. A cry is pulled from him and then he knows the hands, the hair, the warm lips are real. Stronger, yet more tender than his sister’s ever were.

“Hush Jaime,” says Brienne. She is heavy with sleep, soft with love. “It was a dream. It was only a dream.”

It wasn’t. But he lets her pull him to her warmth anyway.

Perhaps it will be enough.

 

XXX

 

He has the feeling he is only allowed here on approval. The moment he reveals himself to be a true Lannister, undeserving of Ser Brienne of Tarth and the words she spoke in the great hall to stay the Dragon Queen’s hand, he will be shunted out. Banished from Winterfell forevermore despite what he has done to save it.

The Stark girl watches him from the walls, hard and resilient as any man who ever took the Black. Her watch has just begun. It is the North she has sworn to guard and she will defend it unto death. Her eyes follow him through the courtyard and he thinks of her mother. Catelyn would be proud of what her children have become even if she would have spared them the horrors they endured. Catelyn would also have had him killed by now, no matter what pretty words Brienne spoke on his behalf.

The frigid wind catches Sansa’s red braid and lifts it high like a banner. She sees him watching and Jaime bows. He is surprised to find he means it. Her face is inscrutable; cold and fair. He knows she is balancing his sins against him; weighing his family, his hateful tendencies, his terrible unworthiness against Brienne’s unshakeable faith.

His past has never felt so heavy.

 

XXX

 

Brienne is not a demonstrative lover. She is almost afraid to touch him outside of the training field. At the long tables during dinnertime, Jaime can feel her shock as their wrists brush together, the flush that blooms across her neck when their thighs meet on the bench. He wants to pull her to him right then and there, prying eyes be damned. He wants to smell the salty skin at the hollow of her throat or hold her hand, taking comfort from her strength. He is fairly sure she would not allow this; would not be above cuffing him or even challenging him to a duel if he tried. So he tries to be content with looking. He memorizes the curve of her spine, the stubborn set of her jaw, the upward tilt of her nose, the taper of her ungloved fingers. He caresses her with his eyes and reassures her with his smile.

Anyway, they make up for it later alone in her bedchamber. They do nothing but touch then and the heat of it is surely enough to set Winterfell aflame.

 

XXX

 

It is impossible not to compare her to Cersei. After all, his sister is the only other lover he has ever known. There is almost nothing they share. Brienne is a pillar where Cersei was a candlestick, a shield to Cersei’s sword. Her body is a puzzle of delicious contradictions that his own sings to unravel. Soft skin rolling out over taut muscles, great strength sheathed in delicate flesh. This woman who fears nothing on the battlefield does not have the slightest idea of what to do with a man in her bed.

He never fucks Brienne. (That was only for Cersei; hot and fast and fueled by something very like hatred.) Instead, they make love. There are no other words for it. It is awkward at first. They are, both of them, inexperienced in such things. What to do with his hand? Why did she laugh when he kissed her here? Or turn away when he touched her there?

But then, oh then! The overwhelming, the bursting, the blinding _pleasure_ when she returned kiss for kiss, touch for touch, giving back whatever he gave to her; when she rose up to meet him or guided his body to where it was needed. He could forget Cersei then, utterly and completely. Entwined with Brienne—all long limbs and big hands and blonde lashes—he could forget his sister’s body; her small high breasts and the long hair that tangled in his hands (back when he still had two). Forget the strangled sounds she made in her throat and the way she sometimes refused to meet his eyes. And as the days turn to weeks, he can almost forget the shame he had used to feel after; that crushing humiliation for what he had done and even more for enjoying it; for wanting it to happen again. Almost.

Brienne’s eyes are wide and blue. They want him. They love him even as they have seen the truth of what he is. Brienne pulls him closer. Her hands know him now and they search for what they know they will find. She does not turn from his gaze. He sees himself reflected there and wants more than anything to be what she sees.

 

XXX

 

It is strange, some would say heartless, but Jaime Lannister has not thought much about the boy who was once Brandon Stark since he had fallen to the ground like a broken bird all those years ago. That boy is the Three-Eyed Raven now, nearly a man or something stranger. Jaime can’t seem to shake him from his mind. The words spoken in the Godswood haunt him—pursuing him through the dark halls of Winterfell, forcing themselves even into his dreams.

_I’m not that person anymore._

_You still would be, if you hadn’t pushed me out of that window. And I would still be Brandon Stark._

Jaime doesn’t think this was an absolution, but he no longer ducks out of sight when Bran’s chair passes by.

He holds the gaze of the Three-Eyed Raven.

 

XXX

 

He thinks –probably too often—of the last time he saw Cersei, the last time he held her in his arms. He remembers how gaunt and cruel she had become, indiscriminate in her selfishness. Or maybe he was just now noticing.

She had wanted it to be as it had been before. And all he could think was, _but you’re not Brienne._

XXX

 

He dreams of the dead. They all do. Some nights it is Brienne who wakes shaking and fighting to stay alive, screaming at bodies that will not fall. Sometimes it is him. There is nothing to do but cling to one another, holding fast to life and body heat until the desperate fear has passed and they are both sure they are still breathing.

 

XXX

 

“Do you wish you had gone to King’s Landing?” he asks one day.

They are sitting in the Godswood and the snow is falling with all the silence of death. Somewhere, a direwolf is crying. It a wild and lovely sound.

“You are a knight now, after all.”

Brienne covers his hand on her knee with her own. They are safe here. There is no one around to see. Hers is as solid and deadly as his own.

“I swore an oath,” is all she says, as if that is all there is to say. And perhaps it is.

His eyes find the blade he gave to her, sheathed at her side. He wonders if it knows it has returned to its true home. Jaime cannot say for sure, but it pleases him more than he will ever say to know that part of him goes with her always. The best part of him. The part of him that still has honor.

“Yes,” he says in answer. "And you will keep it. As any true knight would."

Still and still, the snow falls. It lodges in her hair and fills her pale cheeks with roses. The snow makes her beautiful. It clings to his own eyelashes and hides the gold of his hand.

“But then, you were always a better man than I.”

Brienne turns slowly to face him. He can tell she is not sure if he is teasing or serious. He waits to hear what judgment she will bring down upon him. His heart beats wildly and he wants to swallow her answer with a kiss before she can speak.

“If that were true, I’d have done with you a long time ago.”

Jaime isn’t sure he’s ever really smiled before this moment.

 

XXX

 

They begin to rebuild Winterfell, washing the stain of death from its halls. They keep finding blood in corners or smeared on stairwells and it does not ease their sleep. It is backbreaking work but the North is no stranger to such things. While the men lift away rubble, the women scrub floors and walls and even the crypt. Sansa does not stand aside, but ties her skirts up and throws her weight into the hard brush. Jaime recognizes that slightly mad gleam in her eye; the desperate wish to wipe away all that has come before. He hopes she can manage it. Truly, he does.

It is good for him to do this kind of work though he only has the one hand. In the strain of lifting and moving, hauling and shoveling, he can forget that he ever had a life away from the North. The men laugh and sing even as they heave their strength against broken stones and half-buried bodies. The women pretend not to be interested though their eyes always follow the best singers. On the fifth day of this, Jaime is amazed to find himself included in their jokes. He is gratified, even if he is usually the punchline.

He grins when one swarthy Northerner wishes aloud for a golden hand so he might do half the work, though he admits wiping his ass might not be pleasant. The others clap Jaime’s back saying things like _the lion here works twice as hard as you, blacksmith, even with the ugly stump._

He sees Sansa— Watcher on the Wall, Lady of Winterfell, her long hair bound in a rag—and he swears he catches something like a smile.

 

XXX

 

That night, Cersei comes to him. She is as she once was; young, lovely, golden, smiling. Her hair is loose and sweetly tangled and her silk gown catches between her legs as she runs to him.

“Jaime,” she calls. Her hands clasp him joyfully. “You have been so long from my side. Do you no longer love me, brother of my heart?”

She puts her head against his chest and she fits perfectly, as if she were made for him; as if they had slept like this for nine months curled as closely as rosebuds.

“Why have you abandoned me, Jaime?” she bleats and Jaime cannot stop the tears that start in his eyes. “I need you. I will die if you do not come to me.”

“No,” Jaime says. But his hands are lost in her hair. He cannot get free.

“I will die,” this beautiful ghost cries again and her words echo endlessly. “Die, die, die, die, die, die, die…”

When he wakes, he does not reach for Brienne. He lies alone with his sorrow. With a poisoned love that will not let him go.

 

XXX

 

Sansa tells him in the courtyard. He is on his way to Brienne. His hand has not been fastened securely and is starting to cramp. She is the only one who can tend it properly. He cannot believe how much he has come to think of her; how many times her face, her name, her skin invades his thoughts. He smiles even now, thinking this.

He does not think Sansa means to wound him. It’s just that her hatred of Cersei is never far. Her memories of King’s Landing will never die. But then, Sansa hides her heart as well as his sister ever did.

“Euron Greyjoy ambushed Queen Daenerys and her fleet. One of the dragons was killed, several ships were destroyed, Missandei has been captured.”

Her eyes are hard. Her voice is too calm. She is fighting to control it. She is watching her father die all over again.

“I always wanted to be there when they execute your sister. Now it seems I won’t get the chance.”

She turns away easily as a wolf and he is alone.

But he is never really alone. The past is a millstone hanging from his neck. He will never be rid of it.

 

XXX

 

He almost makes it.

In the darkness of the watcher’s hour, he saddles a horse and prepares to flee. He is a coward. They had made love in the firelight and he knew even then that he would leave. There is a noise behind him, slight but unmistakable. The horse starts, tossing its head and the reins fall from his grasp. _Curse this useless gold_. It is her. He can feel her as surely as he ever felt Cersei. He is not sure yet what this means. She should not be here. He will break her heart. _Brienne._ How sweet the sound.

“Don’t go.”

He says nothing.

“You’re not like your sister. You’re not. You’re a good man.”

He wishes that were true.

“Stay here. Stay with me.”

He feels the man that loving Cersei has made him starting to stir.

_Cersei is hateful. And so am I._

The words are on his tongue. He fights to push them down.

Brienne is crying. He has never seen her weep. It is breaking his heart. Or is that the ache of putting it together again?

“Stay,” she sobs and she is shattering. She is making herself weak for him and it is killing her.

He cannot talk. He doesn’t trust his voice. There is a war raging within him and he is not sure what is winning and what is losing. He closes his eyes so he will not have to see her face. _Brienne_. She expects so much of him. What can he give her? He was lost long before she found him, broken and alone. There is nothing left of him for her to save. Cersei took it all and spat it back out. And yet. Here he is. Still. Here he is. Striving to deserve this honorable, oath-keeping woman. Fighting hardscrabble to hook his fingers into whatever is left of the man he should have been. Is it enough?

“Jaime,” she whispers again; ragged, broken, afraid.

He remembers every moment he has spent with her. He holds them in his mind like blown glass. If he drops them they will shatter and he will be gone forever. He wants to hear her say his name again. If she says it enough it will sponge the past away. He will be made new.

As if she has heard him, as if her heart is bound to his, miraculously, she says again: _Jaime._

“Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.”

He opens his eyes. Brienne is there. She is holding his face in her hands. She is holding him together. She will not let him go.

“Jaime.”

It is enough.

 

XXX

 

When the raven comes from what is left of King’s Landing, Jaime Lannister is alone in the Godswood. It is a peaceful place and he has grown to respect the Northern gods, if not to believe in them. They are too real, too near. The border between myth and truth is too thin here and he lacks the strength to step across that particular threshold. Besides, the tree always makes him think of Catelyn Stark, weeping tears of blood. He will atone for what his family has done to hers though it will take all the years of his life and more beside.

It is an oath he has sworn to himself and he means to keep it, though his sword has no name. His own children have gone beyond his reach but he will do what he can to keep hers among the living.

A shadow falls across the unbroken snow.

“Will you sit with me, Ser Brienne?” he asks, smiling. A gentle humor has returned to them since that long night. He can tease her again and she will love him all the more for it.

“We've had a message from the Red Keep. I wanted to be the one to bring it to you.”

He can tell she does not want to give him the roll of parchment. She knows it will bring him pain. But she knows too that he is able to bear it. Brienne hands him the scrap of paper. It is singed and smelling of the hellishness of war. Her fingers brush his and she does not jump away or pretend not to notice. She looks as if she wants to take his hand and press it to her lips. Instead, she flickers the merest hint of a smile and leaves him be.

 

XXX

 

Jaime always thought that he would feel it when it happened. A dagger slipping between the ribs, a sudden tightening in his throat, a blooming pain in his chest. There were so many ways for a queen to die and they were twins after all. They belonged to each other once.

Instead, he stands and leaves the parchment where it will lie forever, rotten and illegible with age and the passing of winter into spring. As he goes to find the woman he loves, the woman who saved him, the only thing he feels is free.

 

END

 


End file.
